


Stretcher bearer

by DeVereWinterton



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Historical References, Hurt/Comfort, Mentions of Suicide, Pillow Talk, War Stories, there's some plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-29
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-06-18 10:34:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15483843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeVereWinterton/pseuds/DeVereWinterton
Summary: Phryne finds her old nurse’s uniform. Jack is… intrigued.





	Stretcher bearer

**Author's Note:**

> This is a plot bunny I woke up with and wrote as a little ficlet, so not too much backstory here. I watched a video about the VAD nurse’s uniform last night as YouTube recommended it to me, and it inspired this… whatever this is. I tried to add some details about military structure to this fic, but there might be flaws. My knowledge of WWI is a bit rudimentary (WWII is more my forte), so I did not go into too much detail. I did research the placement of Australian troops in France. Please forgive me, I tried.
> 
> Thanks to 221A_brina for beta-ing this little something.

 

_‘They looked like men who had been in Hell... drawn and haggard and so dazed that they appeared to be walking in a dream and their eyes looked glassy and starey.’_

— E. J. Rule (on the Australian survivors of the first week of the Battle of Pozières)

 

“And how was your day?”

Phryne smiled fondly at Jack as she exited the bathroom, turning off the lights as she went. He was sitting up in bed, a few pillows propped up against the headboard to support his back as he placed a well-read copy of _Macbeth_ on the nightstand. It was a humid night, and she was pleased to note he had gotten into bed without his pyjama top. The sight of his tan, bare chest made her nipples tingle sweetly.

The heavy velveteen curtains were drawn, although the open window allowed for a cool breeze, and a single night light basked the room in a soft, warm glow. A year ago the thought of such domesticity - habitually having the same man over for dinner, in her bed and in her heart - would have terrified her, but not anymore. What before had seemed mundane, dull, and restrictive, had turned out to be a comfort she could still live without, but now simply preferred not to.

She liked having Jack around. He still owned his bungalow in Richmond - which came in handy during arguments, or when either of them just needed some space - but he spent most of his time at Wardlow. She loved how he seemed to have made her home his home as well. She adored how he would talk about the news in the paper with Mr. Butler over morning coffee in that low rumble of his, how he would kiss her goodbye on her forehead when she was still in denial about the dawning of a new day, and how he had started leaving his laundry in her hamper.

She’d also grown very fond of talking through their respective days every evening, especially when they weren't working on a case together. Jack was a wonderful storyteller; his dry wit and astute (and sometimes wonderfully naughty!) observations often made her chuckle whenever he was trying to be serious.

Then again, Jack’s ways of admonishing her for taking the mickey often made her want to be a ‘bad girl’ all over again.

She shrugged out of her silk robe and hung it on the hanger on her dressing screen before smoothing over her peach-coloured slip with her hands. She noticed his heated gaze as his eyes followed the casual movements of her hands over her own body. Even after a year of being together intimately, they could still set one another ablaze with just a flick of the wrist, a brush of the hand, or a look.

She smiled coyly as she lifted the covers and got into bed with him, snuggling closer to his side and laying her head on his warm chest. His sparse chest hair tickled her cheek and she cherished the feeling of familiarity, of him, of _home_. His arm came around her to cradle her yielding body against his own before he turned off the light and plunged the room into darkness.

They took a few breaths in tandem before she answered his question.

“My day was pretty uneventful, although I suppose it still beats sitting behind a desk all day,” she quipped, and he pinched her elbow.

“Do you _want_ me to tell you about my day, or don’t you, Jack Robinson?”

She could feel his murmured encouragements rumble in his chest.

“Good. As I was saying; my day was pretty uneventful. Dot and I started cleaning out the attic. Or rather... Dot cleaned, and I went through some boxes of old trinkets.”

“No spiders, then?”

She shivered, then slapped his chest.

“No. Now shush, I’m telling a story.”

She heard him chuckle. _Smug, sexy bastard._

“I found a few pictures I want to get framed. Some rubbish. I also came across my old nurse’s uniform. I’m not sure what I should do with it,” she mentioned casually, and she almost missed Jack’s rather sharp intake of breath.

Almost.

_Interesting._

“I’ve always kept it as a strange kind of memento but now… I thought about donating it to a museum, or maybe just--”

“Are you sure you want to get rid of it?” he interjected.

A sly smirk crept up her face.

“Why, Jack... I never pegged you for a man who fancied a woman in uniform! Although you did seem quite affected when I mentioned you’d never get me in a policewoman’s uniform. Now that _you_ mention it--”

“Phryne?” he interrupted her, effectively stopping her flirtations.

She sensed the shift in the mood immediately.

“Yes, Jack?”

“It’s not that.”

She could almost feel the hurt in his voice, his pain almost tangible as he recalled a time in his life he would rather leave behind locked doors. She knew the feeling all too well. She wasn't even sure she still had her own key.

“Sounds serious.”

“It is, I suppose. It’s… complicated. I-- I was hospitalized once.”

She allowed for the silence to linger as she absorbed that bit of knowledge. She had always suspected Jack might not have made it out of the war unscathed - emotionally, mentally and physically. She’d found rather obvious evidence that would support that theory, but to hear him say it made her heart ache.

“In France?” she guessed.

He nodded.

“Yes. And, well, there was this French nurse…” he trailed off, somewhat uncomfortable with recounting this particular tale.

“I see.” She nodded in sudden understanding, sensing the direction this story appeared to be heading in. “And did you and she… you know?”

“No! Gods, no. No, Phryne,” he countered, though he wasn't offended by her suggestion. “What I meant to say was that she was so young. Barely sixteen? But she took such meticulous care of her patients, and she was so skilled. You could tell some of the other nurses envied her talent. But I hardly ever saw her smile.” He frowned, and the hand holding her to him trembled imperceptibly. “She was beautiful, Phryne. So beautiful. But the war had already found its way inside her. I could just tell it was eating away at her from the inside out. And she was _so young_.”

“Did she--”

“One morning they found her. Hanging from a beam in the pantry. She’d probably been there all night, all by herself, just--” He sighed as he threaded his fingers through her inky hair as though to anchor himself. Her heart clenched. “I wish she would have talked to me. Or to anyone, for that matter. But there was just no…”

“Time?” she supplied.

He shook his head.

“Hope.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat as she pressed her cheek even more firmly to his chest.

“So many innocent lives were lost.”

“I’m so sorry, Jack. That must have been terrible.” She hugged his chest in reassurance and felt him taking a deep breath. “To be honest, I don’t even want to try to recall the number of death certificates I had to fill out.”

“It’s not only the dead who lost their innocence.”

She considered his statement as it hung between them like a heavy cloud, finding no way to deny its validity. Instead, she focused her attention on mapping his chest until she came across the now familiar smattering of scars just above his hip; a cluster of small, slightly raised markings that spread from just below his navel to his side.

She’d never asked about them, knowing he would tell her if and when the time was right. She had a feeling that might be tonight.

“Were these the cause of your hospitalisation?” she asked as she lovingly traced each one of the white scars with dainty fingers, placing soft kisses on every single one.

“Mm,” he murmured, confirming her guess and squirming slightly under her touch. His hand tightening in her hair made her pause.

“My division arrived in France in the summer of 1916. We were… utterly unprepared.”

She looked up at him. His gaze seemed far away.

“I doubt even the best of men could have prepared themselves for what you were about to witness, Jack.”

He blinked, eyes refocusing, and gave her a single nod.

“Around the time we reached Pozières, the battle was already underway. We were stationed on the outskirts for a short while.” He took a shuddering breath. “By the time we entered the battle, there were only around 100 men left in the company. Four platoons, at most? Our platoon was down to 28 men and we had been ordered to guard the trench.”

He briefly closed his eyes, recalling the events - as if replaying them in his mind’s eye -  before continuing.

She wondered if he’d ever told Rosie, before she willed those thoughts away.

“My section consisted of seven men at that point, myself included, and we were in this part of the trench that was near a tricky corner.”

She frowned in confusion.

“It made our spot safe,” he explained. “Well, relatively safe. When the grenades were tossed into the trench, we managed to escape with minor injuries - mostly shrapnel.”

Under normal circumstances, she would have corrected him, but after the horrors she had witnessed at a field hospital once she understood why he considered his injuries only ‘minor’.

“The other sections weren't so lucky. Our platoon lost six men that day,” he whispered, and she looked up just in time to see him wipe away a single tear.

“Jack...”

“I was in that hospital for weeks... I felt so _useless_ ,” he confessed almost angrily; she noticed his hands had balled into tight fists.

“And then she went and--”

She traced his left hand with gentle fingers until he released the tension and relaxed.

Her heart ached for him, but she knew he would not want her pity. She’d seen people die right in front of her, clutching her delicate, yet strong hands in their bloodied ones in final despair, tainting her skin and marking her for life. She resented the look of pity people would give her after the war whenever it came up in conversation that she’d been stationed in France as a VAD nurse. She certainly did not _want_ their pity. Or their sympathy, for that matter; she had no use for it now, and somehow… somehow it always felt as though she was undeserving of it. She’d made it out, after all. She’d only been doing her job.

She surmised Jack had to feel much the same way, if not more so, with the guilt gnawing away at him for not being able to save his comrades, but surviving himself. She remained still, quiet - save for a single finger trailing softly and aimlessly across his chest - silently encouraging him to continue when he felt he was ready.

“The other men were just ‘round the corner from where we were stationed, Phryne… If I would have--” His breath hitched and his voice quivered. He sounded as though he might burst into tears this time.

She sat up ever so slightly, so she could look him in the eye when she spoke.

“But that _didn’t_ happen, Jack, and for that, I am forever grateful,” she told him, then placed a kiss where she could feel his steady heartbeat.

“I still hear them sometimes... in my sleep.”

“I know. I do, too.”

After exchanging a sad smile - both reminded of the times they each had held the other after experiencing awful nightmares - they set about tossing the extra pillows on the floor. She watched Jack as he allowed for the firm mattress to catch him, to comfort his weight as he lay down.

Phryne reclaimed her position on his chest, slinging her thigh over his hip, insinuating her leg between his in a gesture of intimacy and comfort that went far beyond the physical.

“I wish I could have been there, Jack. I wish I could have comforted you. It’s a terribly selfish thought, I know,” she whispered as she absent-mindedly toyed with his chest hair.

He chuckled.

“How is you wanting to comfort me a selfish thing, love?”

“Because this isn’t about me, Jack.”

“Oh?”

She jokingly and good-heartedly elbowed him in the ribs.

“I can’t help it that I’m a very entertaining individual, Inspector.”

“You’re becoming less entertaining by the minute,” he grumbled as he theatrically rubbed the spot where she jabbed him.

“Really?” she queried as she snuck her hand under the covers and trailed the waistband of his pyjamas.

“Although I must admit I can see your appeal,” he spoke on a groan as she traced the outline of his hardening cock through his satin pyjama bottoms.

“I just wish I would have known you then, Jack,” she admitted softly, sincerely.

“You know me now.” A low moan escaped him as she cupped him through his pants.

“I do.”

“And you’re comforting me now,” he gasped.

She dipped her hand inside his pyjamas, utterly pleased to find him sans smalls and she languidly started stroking his velvety skin, his flesh hardening in her palm.

“I am.”

Suddenly and gently he halted her ministrations by placing his large hand on top of hers, stilling her movements. He looked at her with such adoration, that for a moment, she forgot how to breathe.

“Phryne? For tonight, could we just…?”

“Not?”

He nodded shyly.

She smiled at his endearing countenance.

She wondered if she could love this man any more than she already did, then realised she probably loved him a little bit more with each passing day, with each story, with each sob and with every smile.

She listened to his steady breathing until the comfort of simply holding one another, of simply _being_ , lulled them into a peaceful sleep.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I guess we now know why Phryne hates doing paperwork. Well. In my head-canon anyway.


End file.
